Mmmm, Mmmm Good

I’m not a cook. Sure, I can make a casserole and anything involving a crock pot, but without a very detailed recipe and ingredients I can pronounce I’m lost. Jack may have appreciated this nugget of information before he got down on one knee, but it’s too late now. Early in our marriage my mantra was “If it comes in a box, bag, can, or jar, I can cook it.” People we worked with used to give me Hamburger Helper coupons, which I appreciated, because we ate a LOT of Hamburger Helper. I’d like to think I’ve developed at least a little bit since then.

Jack recently bought me a whole slew of gorgeous new appliances. I’m not sure if he thought it would inspire me to start cooking, but he seemed dismayed when I announced to a friend that the pretty stainless steel items were like the earrings for my kitchen. None-the-less, when he finds me standing near them with a spatula in my hand, he gets really excited.

Last Saturday, we endured a pretty bad blizzard. I thought I would treat my family with cream of potato and bacon soup. When Jack came home from work that morning, the entire house smelled delicious. I couldn’t wait to share my creation with the entire family. I followed the recipe to a tee. I hand chopped the vegetables, carefully brought the broth to a boil, observed all the cooking times as outlined on the recipe I found online. Then about an hour in it happened. The smell filled the house. Not the pleasant bacon and soup smell that had been filling the house up to this point, but the smell of something that had gone terribly wrong. In approximately 3 minutes I managed to scorch the soup to the bottom of the pan and turn my beautiful soup into a pan of stinky mashed potatoes. I frantically poured the potatoes out of the pan into a bowl and feverishly added milk to try to regain some semblance of soup. In the end a couple of people choked down a bowl and the rest has come to its resting place in the fridge. Waiting a moldy death.

Talk about letting the wind out of my sails. This is why I don’t cook.

In an effort to claim my revenge yesterday I made white chicken chili. I used a proven recipe provided by some friends at church and recreated by my husband on at least one occasion. It was so successful I made it again tonight.

Here’s the recipe for cooks of all levels.

2 chicken breasts, diced 6 strips bacon, cooked & chopped 2 cans chicken broth 2 cans (4 oz) green chilies 1 tsp. cumin 1/2 tsp. pepper 1/2 small onion, chopped

2-4 garlic cloves, chopped 2 cans northern beans 1 tsp. salt 1 tsp. dried oregano 1/4 tsp. cayenne pepper 1 cup sour cream 1 cup half & half

Sauté chicken, onion, and bacon until chicken is no longer pink, add garlic the last few minutes. Transfer to a soup pot and add remaining ingredients except sour cream and half & half. bring to a boil then simmer for 20-30 minutes. Stir in sour cream and half & half and cook until heated through.

What’s that Smell?

It’s official, I’m the stinky kid. I’m not sure how or why, exactly, I received this new honor, but I did.

This morning I walked into my office to a pleasant scent I couldn’t immediately identify. Not a strong scent, but a new scent. As I wandered in and out of my office all morning, I’d catch a whiff of it and wonder what it was. Right before noon a co-worker walked in to my office to ask me a question and commented on the Jolly Rancher smell in my office. I was all, “I know, right?!"

Upon confirmation that I was not delusional I turned all of my attention to finding the source. I tried to remember where I had smelled this fruity bliss. Once I became frustrated with my inability to identify it (which took approximately forty-five seconds) I began wandering around sniffing like a lunatic. That’s when I found this.

That’s right, boys and girls, I found an air freshener hiding behind a basket on top of the filing cabinets in the corner of my office! The same air fresheners our cleaning crew puts in the rest rooms at my office.

Coincidence? I think not!

My Dog is Slow

…not like the opposite of fast, although she is not built for speed. No, I mean I think my dog is not all there upstairs. If I had given birth to her, I have reason to believe she’d ride the short bus.

There are a myriad of reasons that have led me to this conclusion.

Exhibit A

What the neighbors must think!

She’s a stalker. She follows me around the house from the time I come home until she decides that she simply can’t tote her 70 lb. butt around on her 4 inch legs any more and retires to her rug**. She follows me into the bathroom every time I forget to close the door ALL the way and paws at my knees while I’m doing my business until I pet her head. Tonight she barged into the bathroom while #3 was in the shower. I can only imagine this is the look she had on her face while she sat and stared at the shower door until #1 caught her and made her leave her post.

Exhibit B

**(Jack may call it a bed, but I was under strict instructions not to buy her a bed, so I bought her a rug with bumpers that may or may not have been found in the pet aisle.)

While Jack does not love the dog, that was not his reasoning to not want to buy her a bed. While every vet this side of the Mississippi will tell you to potty train a puppy, you should kennel them during the day and overnight to teach them to hold it. They claim that dogs will not pee where they sleep. Someone forgot to tell my mentally challenged hunk of canine. She has peed in every bed we have ever provided her. This infuriates my husband. And gives me more reason to think my dog is not the sharpest tool in the shed.

Two days ago I received a phone call at the office. It was a neighbor. She was calling to inform me that she had put our dog in the house. See Lucy’s underground fence collar broke and I have been reluctant about spending $70 on a new one. For a while she was good. She was trained to stay in the yard, collar or not. Then she must have got sick and tired of sitting on the porch and watching the world pass her by. She now realizes she can cross the imaginary border without getting a jolt of electricity through her fat dog body and takes advantage of it.

This is not the first call we’ve received from the neighbors. No, we’ve been contacted by 3 other neighbors asking if it’s okay if they put her in the house when they find her off-property. One day, while Jack and I were sitting in the living room, our front door opened, our dog came running into the living room, and the front door closed. Now, I’m pretty sure she hasn’t learned to open the door on her own. How embarrassing that people have to watch our dog while we watch our TV.

But this last phone call was the nail in the coffin. It is the reason I have to post on the world wide web and let the universe know my dog is a moron. My neighbor had to pull her car over and put my dog in the house BECAUSE SHE SITS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET. We live on a fairly busy road near a high school. We have teenagers that race up and down our street before and after school. It is during this time that my overweight dog decides to park herself in the middle of the street and watch the cars zoom past her. She refuses to move for anyone or anything. She is unfazed by the 1/2 ton vehicles that could squash her. It’s almost as if she knows the amount of damage she will do to their suspension and frames and knows they won’t take the chance.

Big, fat, dumb, and slobbery – I love her, no matter what the girls dress her up in!

Spirit Week

Not too long ago our local high school celebrated homecoming. In a time-honored tradition, our student body selected dress-up days. Back when I was in high school (I realized this was a very long time ago) we had the standard toga day, opposite sex day, jersey day. Now-a-days kids are much more creative!

Day One: 80’s workout day

 

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#1 could not believe that we EVER dressed like this. These pictures were taken very late in the day after the banana clip came out of her hair and the teasing had been washed out by a shower, but you get the general idea.

 

Day Two: Tourist Day

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LOVE the fanny pack! #1 found a guy at church the next Sunday wearing those exact shoes – YIKES!

 

Day Three: “Would you still be my friend if I wore this?”

Can you tell how not entertained by my camera she was becoming this early in the morning?

Thank goodness for the Goodwill – who owns clothes like this?

Hair Emergency

A major hair crisis was averted today!

It was picture day for two of my three lovely ladies today. As you may remember from last year’s post, this is not one of my most favorite days of the year. As it were, today my Lord thought it would be entertaining to bless us with a torrential downpour. After I painstakingly straightened #2’s hair and sprayed it down, I delivered all my beauties to their respective educational institutions making me a mere 40 minutes late for work.

At 10:35am I received a call from a cell phone number I didn’t recognize. On the other end was the sobbing of a young girl that may or may not have been someone I birthed.

“Mommy?” (sniff, sniff, gulp) “I need to talk to you.”

“Okay… what’s up baby?”

“My hair fuzzed all out and it's a big puff ball.” (sniffle, gulp, sniffle, crackle) “Do you think you could get your straightener and come fix it before 11:10?”

NOTE: I work about 30 minutes from #2’s school. I had someone in my office and was waiting for a co-worker to call me.

“Uh, I can sure try.”

What was I thinking? How on earth was I going to tie up the loose ends here in my office, make a stop at home to grab the miracle hair tool, and make it to her school in time? Did I think I was super human?

I announced a hair emergency as I ran from the office. I darted in and out of traffic (I may have ran a red light and exceeded the speed limit by a number that may have given the state of Iowa cause to revoke my driver’s license). I ran into the house (in my heels), grabbed the straightener (and an athletic pass that one had forgotten at home earlier that day), and darted back out the door. The napping dog cracked an eye as if to say, “What are you doing, you crazy woman? Can’t you see I’m napping here?”

I raced to the middle school and tracked her down. She had obviously been crying at one point as her cheeks were still a little pink. I swept her off to the locker room and began my recon mission.

As it turns out some sadistic gym teacher forced his 11 thru 14 year olds to run laps and play volleyball on picture day. Doesn’t he understand that once my precious offspring even think about perspiring their naturally curly hair will immediately disregard the amount of time and product that has been spent trying to keep it straight as a pin? Who purposely inflicts this type of activity on hormonal tweens on a day that will forever be documented in history. We all have a school picture (or 3) we wish we could take back.

My resourceful little one borrowed a contraband cell phone from a classmate and sneaked off to a bathroom stall to put out an SOS to the only person on the planet she knew she could count on to make it right. She knew I would drop everything to help her out in this most important time. She gave me a time frame she knew I could make if I hurried. When her class was called down 20 minutes earlier than she had planned, she broke.

“My hair is supposed to be straight.”

“Your hair looks fine. Stand right here.”

“But my hair is supposed to be straight.”

At this point the principal intervened to see what was throwing off his meticulously oiled picture-taking production (seriously, there were walkie talkies involved!).

“My hair is supposed to be straight.”

“Your hair looks fine.” (He must not have understood that this line didn’t work for her homeroom teacher and that she was not going to be swayed by nicety.)

“My mom is already on her way to fix it.”

Now this man is no fool and has the sense of mind to understand that he has (a) a hormonal 12 year old on his hand and (b) a mother that is not going to be happy to show up at school to a hysterical child who was forced to have her picture taken looking like THAT while she ran her a** off trying to avert disaster.

“Why don’t your just stand off to the side until your mom gets here.”

Smart. Very smart.

“Not My Job”

My hats off to you Iowa Department of Transportation!

I’m Too Old for This!

Last night, just as I was getting ready to go to bed, the tornado sirens went off. It was 11:45pm. I woke my husband who had been sleeping since about 10:00. I grabbed my laptop (battery full) and headed to the living room to get #3 who had fallen asleep on the couch. As we head for the basement, my semi-unstable husband headed for the front door. What is it about men that send them flying outside to see the storm when the county officials sound warning sirens indicating you should take cover?

In the basement #1 was asleep in her bed and #2 was sleeping on the floor of the family room. Keep in mind that the basement remodel is NEARLY complete, so the soft carpet, the warm couch, and the flat screen TV all make weathering a storm pleasant. I laid #3 to sleep on the floor next to her big sister, waited for the all-clear, and headed upstairs to bed. I listened intently as the sump pump kicked on three times before I let the storm lull me to sleep.

At 3:00am #2 appeared in our room with a “Why is the carpet all wet?” I got up and headed to the basement to find out how bad it was and why the sump pump wasn’t doing it’s part. With only a slightly delayed response, Jackson came flying down the stairs and ripped the carpet remnant out of the sump pump closet. Upon his attack, the sump pump kicked on as if he had woken it up. We spent the next hour retrieving the shop vac from the garage, moving things out of the path of the stream meandering around under our carpet, and sucking up as much water as possible. The two little ones had retreated upstairs, but #1 remained steadfast in her bed just feet away from the roaring vacuum.

At 4:00am we were mostly satisfied that we had gotten what we could. We set up the fan and dragged the vac to the utility room assuming we were not done utilizing it’s services. Upon our retreat I stepped in a squishy spot outside the bathroom. I turned on the light and discovered a whole ‘nother issue. We spent the next hour trying to figure out where, under the tile, this puddle was going and how to best head it off. We found an ingenious way to prop the shop vac up to suck up the water before it bled all over the place and reeked havoc on our carpet.

At 5:00am I emailed my boss and informed him that I fully planned on sleeping through my 6:20 alarm. Jackson opted to stay up and monitor the pump and empty the shop vac as it filled.

At 7:30am we reversed roles, well kinda. He prepared to go to work and I dragged my butt out of bed to take over water duty.

At 7:50am I called contractors to find out what our options were. As it turns out, the guy that can help us is sick!

At 8:10am I heard the shop vac scream. It sent me flying down the basement stairs. I flung open the bathroom door to find a plume of smoke billowing from the motor. I unplugged it just in time to hear the orchestra of smoke alarms wake anyone that may have still been attempting to sleep in the house.

At 8:30am I called the plumber to find out what our other options were for trying to stay on top of this water.

At 9:00am I purchased a new shop vac. Returned home, assembled it, and resumed my lifeguard duties. I tried to work off and on while keeping a sharp eye on all things water and smoke related.

At 11:30am I called Jackson, gave him the indoor pool update and tagged out. As much as I wanted to stay in play in the giant puddle that is our basement (can you sense the sarcasm), I had meetings I had to attend at the office.

At 8:00pm I returned home only to find nothing had changed! The water is still trying to find it’s way to the surface or hiding deep beneath the not-yet-paid for floor covering. I took over guardian of the flood gates and Jackson retreated to the surface for a much-needed shower and snack.

It’s now 10:00pm and I’m not sure how long this can continue to go one, but as the family-designated night owl, I get the first shift. I truly hope God knows I am too old for this and if he wants me to start constructing an ark, he’s going to have to come right out and tell me.

Did You Get Some Sun?

Yesterday I spent exactly two and a half hours watching #1 play a double-header in softball. Nearly 15 minutes into this outing I felt it was in my best interest to cover my fair freckled skin in SPF 50. I made my way to #1’s duffle bag and retrieved the bottle I had purchased for her just weeks before. I sprayed myself from head to toe and headed back to my seat.

Just hours later, my inability to EVENLY distribute sun screen became painfully apparent. One would think by the time one has celebrated 9 anniversaries of her 28th birthday, one would be better skilled in this area – it’s not like this was my first encounter with sun screen. Somehow I had a red strip on each of my legs, red bands on the tops of my arm, a nice red triangle where the collar of shirt lay, and a bright red nose. Seriously, it looks as if I put sun screen on my hands, rubbed my cheeks, and called it good.

It’s crazy embarrassing, but even more annoying are the people that continue to approach me with, “Oh, did you get some sun?” So, this post is for you!

Here are the things I’ve decided to use as a reply to this ridiculous question.

1. Oh, no, I was smelling my burner and lingered a bit too long.
2. This is what happens when your meth lab blows up.
3. What?! Oh, no! Not again.
4. Don’t worry, it’s not contagious.
5. I was gearing up for my role as Ruldoph and the makeup stained my face.
6. Huh? There’s nothing wrong with my nose.
7. I’m promoting comic relief Red Nose Day.
8. Dang summer colds.
9. I was playing Got Your Nose with a psychotic 3 year old. She won!
10. You get what you get when you make out with Strawberry Shortcake.

I Didn’t Think So!

On Mother’s Day this year, my husband failed to deliver in spectacular fashion!

He had a speaking engagement in a neighboring town and invited me to join him. I declined. I opted to sleep in.

My little sister called and and asked me to go to our mother’s for a quick visit – it was Mother’s Day after all. I caved when she bribed me with strawberry shortcakes.

Ten minutes after I agreed to this obligation, Jackson called (last minute) and asked if I wanted to go out for lunch at one of my favorite Mexican restaurants. I did, but I had committed to going to Mom’s.

He showed up at my Mom’s and laid on her couch. Around 12:30pm I suggested that we go to Sioux City, catch a movie with the girls, and do some much-needed shopping for #2’s band uniform (days until it was needed: 3.5). He announced he was NOT going to Sioux City. If that was something I wanted to do I should have planned it earlier. Seriously?! Whose day was this any way?

We went home. He, #2, and #3 in one car. Me and #1 in another car.

When we got home, he suggested we get #2’s band uniform at our local store. But did stop by that store when he drove right past it with #2 in his car? No!

I loaded #2 in the car, drove back to the store and helped her successfully secure exactly 1 of the 2 items she needed. Upon returning home he was polite enough to inquire as to our luck from the couch where he was enjoying a second viewing of Avatar – a movie he rented for himself even though I had made it clear that I had no desire to watch that flick AND it was Mother’s Day.

**Side Note (of great importance to the story) – I made it my New Year’s resolution to stop shopping at Wal-Mart. The place infuriates me, their business practices are that of a corporate bully, and their customer service is among the worst I’ve encountered.

It was then decided that I would drive #2 to Wal-Mart (in that neighboring town where Jack was that morning) where she had been given a gift card to find the other half of her uniform.

That’s right! On Mother’s Day I was going to be given the privilege (can you sense my sarcasm?) to break a new year’s resolution that, up until this point had been flawlessly maintained.

After Wal-Mart, I treated #2 to a concrete mixer and rented a movie from Red Box.

I returned home (uniform fully complete), went directly to my room to watch my movie, and spent the rest of the afternoon by myself – not really the way I had envisioned this day going.

Near the end of my chick-flick, my life partner invaded my alone-time and began commenting and asking questions regarding my movie. THEN he asked me what my plan was for supper.

I told him I didn’t have a plan, but I was NOT cooking. He seemed annoyed by that. I then suggested we eat at one of the 5 restaurants that are open on Sunday in our town. He said he would go pick something up if I told him what I wanted. I said I would prefer to go eat at the establishment. He voiced his dislike for that idea. I grabbed my purse and left. On my way out the door he asked if I wanted him to come. I didn’t reply.

After spending a good 40 minutes with my Lord trying to calm down, I went to Subway and ordered a pizza and ONE cookie – to go. I went home, sat at the kitchen table and ate my supper. Someone even had the audacity to ask me, “Did you just get one cookie?” to which I replied, “Yep.”

Boy, what a craptastic day!

THEN, and here’s where it almost becomes comical…

Five days before Father’s Day, the love of my life says, “Hey I was telling this guy at work today how awesome it would be if you planned to have our flat screen TV installed without me knowing for Father’s Day.”

Four days before Father’s Day, my one and only says, “Hey, wanna know what my other idea is for Father’s Day?” to which I replied, “Hey wanna talk about what I got for Mother’s Day?!”

(Dead Silence)

The Great Scooter Debacle

Precisely one month before #1 was to turn 14 (the legal age to drive a moped in this great state), I ventured to a nearby city in a neighboring state and bought a moped to surprise her with on her birthday. The dealer agreed to hold it for us until the big day arrived.

The weekend before the big day (which was to fall on Tuesday this year), I snuck out of the house with my husbands pickup to pick it up. The nice employees at the dealer helped me load the scooter in the back of the Honderosa and strap it down for the one hour drive home. Having never hauled anything this large or this expensive in my entire life, I cautiously ventured out on to the interstate. I kept one eye on the scooter (and the other eye on the scooter!) as I endured underpasses and the rattling the Honderosa was making scaring me half to death. Just as I got to the edge of town, it dawned on me. The large VIP writing on the front of the scooter is the PRECISE reason I spent an extra $50 to get the limited edition version. This was not the moped I purchased!

I turned my big rig around (which was kind of a large production in and of itself) and headed back to the dealer. Upon arriving, I found two nice ladies that had arrived to pick up the VIP scooter I had in the back of my vehicle. Strangely enough, they were from Jackson’s hometown and would be cruising through the big OC on their way home. They had agreed to stop in OC and exchange the scooters. They had called the house (understanding the covert mission I was on) and politely asked for Jackson’s cell phone number. They had contacted him and made the plan. Then I showed back up.

The employees at the dealership apologized profusely and helped me unload the wrong scooter out of my backend (well, not technically MY backend, but you understand). We loaded the new one up and I was off again. On my way out, I rolled down my window to wish the other two gals good luck. One of the ladies commented on the 50c written on the side of the scooter I now had loaded in my truck. She said the reason they had bought the VIP version was because Iowa law stated these motorized vehicles could NOT be more than 49cc or they qualified as a motorcycle and our 14 year-olds would not be able to drive it.

Holy crap! What was to be a quick grab and run was turning in to a venture I was NOT enjoying.

I questioned the employee that was still busy helping her load her scooter into her trailer. He assured me that the bike I had loaded met the Iowa laws. He seemed confident, so I drove off. As I drove down the freeway I realized I hadn’t grabbed the key out of the ignition. I took the next exit and grabbed both the keys and the owner’s manual. I feverishly thumbed through the book looking for any indication that the moped I was about to present my daughter on her big day was legally what she needed. I found nothing. So once I again, I headed back to the dealer.

I’m sure they rolled their eyes and thought, “This lady is NEVER going to leave us alone!”. I found the gentleman that I had purchased the scooter from one month earlier. He assured me that the scooter was 49cc. He pointed out the place in the owner’s manual that stated the size of the motor or whatever. He could have been feeding me a line of crap, I wouldn’t have known the difference. Oh, how I wished Jackson could have gotten out of work that day and come with me. He would have understood all this boy stuff. In the end the 50c written on the side of the machine was simply part of the model number. I’m sure this guy thought I was a complete idiot.

I’m happy to report that the scooter we gave our oldest daughter a scooter was exactly what she needed. I just pray that it last long enough for her two sisters to enjoy. We haven’t seen her since!

All I Want for Christmas

I know, I know, it’s been FAR too long since I posted. I’d like to say it’s because my life has been passing by quietly and uneventfully. We all know in the house of chaos that would be a bold-faced lie.

In the last couple of months I’ve retuned to Vegas with 4 girlfriends (more commonly known as the lint licking cootie queens), watched #1 take her first communion, played tournament softball until I couldn’t stand up straight for three days, stained more wood than I’d like to revisit, and #1 has “earned” the right to drive a motor vehicle while chaperoned. But those are all events for future posts. Today’s post is going to center around our most recent chaos.

I’m well aware that Christmas is 7 months away (holy crap – only 7 months away!), but I’d like to get my wish list out there early. I’m throwing it out there into cyber space in the hopes that my Lord will click on my blog link and react sooner than later (He surfs the web, right?).

(ahem) All I want for Christmas is healthy kids. There, I said it. I know it seems shallow and materialistic, but I’m not sure how much longer my bank account can keep up with my broken, defective kids!

Tuesday: #3 wakes up with a temperature of 102 and a light cough

Wednesday: #3 continues to run a fever and our annual Tulip Festival is set to kick off on Thursday. This kid has GOT to get better. We have far too much to do in the upcoming 3 days to be weighted down with a sick one. Besides, who will her partner Dutch Dance with? Who will ride the floats in her place? I break down and take her to the doctor. Her rapid strep test comes back negative. I’m instructed to keep put her on a rotation of ibuprofen and tylenol to keep her fever down (I nearly knocked a nurse on her butt when she told me that this could be done, like I’d never heard about it, like this was my first child, like #3 made it to 9 with a mentally underdeveloped mother who doesn’t spend a MAJORITY of her time and paycheck at the medical facility they should have named after her. Seriously?!). They’d call me back in a few days if the cultured strep test showed anything different.

Thursday: No change, no time to slow down and notice if anything did change – it’s Tulip Festival and I’ve 2 other children that need to be in a myriad of other locations throughout the day.

Friday: Still feverish, cough may be getting worse, seems awfully sluggish, still running around town like a lunatic.

Saturday: more of the same. God bless Kandi & Darwin for letting #3 crash at their house where she can see the parades from the comfort of their couch where she spends a good majority of time. Dragging my child out and about and exposing her to several people while she’s near death does NOT make me a bad mom (okay, maybe it does!).

Sunday: STILL feverish, I’m not certain this is ever going to end. I’m starting to become concerned that this lethargic little girl is the new normal.

Monday: Back to the doctor. This time we get a round of antibiotics. The viral infection should have worked it’s way out, 7 days with a fever = bacterial infection

Tuesday: no change

Wednesday: starting to feel better (now coughing like a 70 year old smoker), but developing a rash on chest and butt – back to the doctor. It’s at this time we (and by we I mean NOT me) undergo a battery of blood tests and chest x-rays. We are told that it is NOT strep, it is NOT mono, it is NOT walking pneumonia. The antibiotics seem to be making her better and her fever has subsided. We’re going to stay on this track and see if we can get her back in school (WAHOO!). #2 announces that her red eye (which I had been too busy to notice) was matted shut this morning. I high-tail it over to the eye doctor’s office only to have missed them by 10 minutes. I snatch up the first appointment for tomorrow morning.

Thursday: #2 gets diagnosed with “non-contagious infection of the eye” aka Conjuntivitus (pink eye – totally contagious), but sending her back to school none-the-less. #3 is back at school. She returned home only to require a 2 hour nap. #1, in an effort to not be forgotten falls at softball practice and tweeks her wrist – nothing a little ice pack can’t fix

Friday: #3 is still sluggish and coughing, but definitely better. # 2’s eye is less pussy. #1 is still icing that wrist.

Saturday: #2 goes shopping with her Godparents only too spike a fever (you know it!)

Sunday: more fever, coughing getting more irritating

Monday: #2 is still feverish, so back to the doctor (different day, different kid). We forego all the test and proceed directly to the antibiotics.

Tuesday: #2 is spending one last day at home. #3 goes to bed only to wake up with hives. That’s right! The fun never ends here!!

Wednesday: #2 is back in school. #1 is trying to flex the kink out of her wrist. And mom spent the day getting #3’s medical charts updated with this new-found drug allergy.

We’re still itching and coughing, flexing and icing, but we’re all back in the game (for now).

SO, (testing, testing, is this thing on?) God, if your listening I would like you to ensure the health of my piglets for the remainder of the year. One more trip to the doctor’s office and I feel like I should hand them my paycheck and ask for a plaque next to the fountain. Amen.

Are We There Yet?

I feel another Vegas trip coming on.

 

 

 

 

I hope Jack’s up for the challenge!

Happy Birthday, #2!

Twelve years ago today I insisted the doctor induce my 2nd pregnancy. My original due date was February 16th. After the ultrasound, they pushed it back to the middle of March. The last thing a pregnant lady wants to hear in her second trimester is that she has to carry this child an additional month.

Twelve years ago today, I arrived at the hospital in anticipation of bringing home a baby boy. I had already purchased his christening outfit.

Twelve years ago today, my doctor induced me. Five hours later he sent me home.

Twelve years ago today, I didn’t drive 16 miles back home, but rather went 10 blocks to my mother’s and inhaled an entire frozen pizza.

Twelve years ago today, I PROMPTLY returned to the hospital in full-on later only half an hour after inhaling an entire frozen pizza.

Twelve years ago today, I threw up an entire frozen pizza on a mildly irritated OB nurse.

Twelve years ago today, I passed an entire human being – all 7 pounds, 11 ounces.

Twelve years ago today, I gave birth to our second daughter, not the son I had anticipated. Let’s disregard the fact that the ultrasound doctor told me she was a girl and I told him he was wrong – a mother just knows these things. He was not wrong.

Twelve years ago today, my life became a little brighter.

Happy birthday, my precious #2.

Guess Whose Birthday Eve It Is?

I celebrated by re-folding the towels in the linen closet. They are all now uniform and pretty. My world is at peace!

Opening Ceremonies

While the rest of the world enjoyed the opening ceremony in Vancouver, my family is being inundated with the opening ceremonies of my birthday eve.

On Wednesday I’ll be celebrating the anniversary of my 28th birthday. For many people it is difficult dealing with the “0” birthdays (30, 40, 50, etc.). Not me. I really struggled with my 28th birthday. In my life plan I was going to get married at 28. Isn’t it funny how the best laid plans exist only to fall apart? By the time I turned 28, I had been married for six and a half years to a farm boy and preparing for the arrival of our third child. For a girl that didn’t want children, wanted to marry a big-city guy, and had a very different perspective of where life would take her, turning 28 was far more difficult than 30. Thus, I’ve made the executive decision to never celebrate another birthday. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t regret my decisions. I really do love my chaotic life. Really. I do. Seriously.

Many of you will remember last year when Jack’s work took him on the road for my birthday. The day before he was to leave (a day formerly known as HIS birthday) he called me up and was all, “Since we’re not leaving until this afternoon and I’m going to be out of town for your birthday, why don’t I stop by your office and take you out for dinner?” How thoughtful. Right? WRONG! While we were sitting in the restaurant his cell phone vibrated and he answered it RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF MY SENTENCE! I couldn’t even believe it. No “Hold on, I need to get this.” No “Do you mind if I answer this.” Just “Hello, this is Jack.” I just stared at him. He didn’t notice. He got off the phone and looked at me as if he didn’t even realize I was talking. No “I’m sorry. What were you saying?” No “Have I told you how much I love you.” Nothing. He just started shoveling his Shrimp & Vegetables into his mouth – while I stared in disbelief. THIS my friends, is why Jack Cronin is no longer entitled to a birthday.

Please disregard his screaming in the background. Regardless what he says, “I can. It’s my birthday!” is NOT an excuse to be rude to your wife and then ABANDON her on her birthday!

Tonight the girls are making the preparations for my birthday eve celebration by making a cake. That’s right – cake for me to cram in my cakehole! I can hardly wait to see what the festivities will be like on the ACTUAL anniversary of my 28th birthday. Too bad Jackson scheduled ANOTHER work trip on the 17th of February. It’s almost like he doesn’t want to be around me on MY DAY! Hmm, peculiar. Whatever, at least I get the whole bed to myself!

If I Had a Dollar for Every Time…

I get that my life is not ordinary. I understand that it has more chaos than the normal person. I’m nearly certain a good amount of it is due solely because of who I am hard-wired to be.

That being said…

A few different people have told me that I need to take my stories to the stage. They claim I have enough material to keep a crowd laughing for quite a while. I choose this blog as my stage. It is here that I vent and tell stories I hope you find entertaining. I use it as a sort of therapy, but if it brings you some sort of comic relief, then it’s a win-win.

A good number of people have have also told me that we need to have cameras installed in my house. I’m not so sure that this is the best idea I’ve heard. I know that what goes on within the walls of my home can be translated into humorous stories and anecdotes, but I’m also pretty sure that a good majority of what goes on in my house would be frowned upon by the Iowa Department of Family Services. The last thing I need is for them to parade into my house with video evidence that I’m a bad parent.

Today I tried to convince #1 that she was shorter than a midget. I think I would have had her too, if her father hadn’t come forward with the truth.

Today I told #2 that her new bedroom in the basement was going to be given to #3. For, you see, this is the year that #2 turns 12. Twelve is an even number. Number 2 has been breaking her arms every-other year since she was 2. That’s right 2, 4, 6, 8, and 10. This year it is her destiny to break an arm and I am not looking forward to the ER trip. I hate trying to convince the medical staff that I know nearly as much about green-stick fractures as they do. I hate having to relive all the accidents #2 has encountered. I hate the inquisitive looks I get from the x-ray technicians as they decide whether or not I’m abusing my child. I especially hate wondering whether this is the accident that wins me a visit from a social worker. Any who… today I informed #2 that the hamster ball she will be receiving for her 12th birthday will not fit down the basement stairs.

Today I “suggested” to #3 that her sister “could straighten her hair before church.” as I was heading out the door for choir. When she replied that she was good as she attempted to smooth down her locks that were wildly out of control, my only reply was “I SAID, I’m sure your sister would be happy to straighten your hair for you before you leave for church.” I gave Jackson “the look”, closed the door, and left.

Today I attempted to lay a guilt trip on Jackson for not getting me anything for V-day. He attempted a rebuttal, but I shot all his “excuses” down. At the end of the day, I didn’t get him anything either!

Toddlers and Tiaras

To all of you that have been PATIENTLY awaiting an update…

I did not die as a result of the Advocare 24 Day Challenge. In fact, quite the opposite is true. I feel great. I haven’t used my stomach meds once (no heartburn, no nothing). I have way more energy. I’m thinking more coherently and able to focus more intently. As an added bonus I lost 7 pounds and 8 1/2 inches. I was so happy with all the results that I’ve decided to stick with it. In return, God melted another 6 pounds off my butt :) As it happens, you make good choices and good things happen.

Not only am I feeling and looking great, but other good things are coming my way.

1. It’s tax season – that’s like Christmas for an accountant!
2. My sister asked me to be in her wedding and I get to wear a really pretty dress!
3. I’ve been selected to be a judge at the Miss Hull and Little Miss Hull pageant.

Here’s my plan for the pageant…

I’ve decided to be the Simon Cowell judge. I’m going to wear a black t-shirt that is far too small and say things to the five year-olds like, “You call that a talent? I’m pretty sure my overweight dog could do better at that than you!” and see how many I can make cry. Last one standing takes home the tiara. That’s the way I roll! Hull will never know what hit them! Oh, tiara, that reminds me. I wonder if they’ll let me where my tiara to the pageant?!

Off to catch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon!

The 24 Day Challenge

How do I let Jackson talk me into these things. Can’t he just accept that we’re old and out of shape?

Tomorrow starts our Advocare 24 challenge. It starts with a 10 day cleanse. It’s a regiment of fruits, vegetables, vitamins, and supplements. All I know is it better be a GENTLE cleanse like it says or this is going to be the longest 10 days of my life. The cleanse is followed by 14 days of Max Pack (added energy and appetite control). I’m excited about it working. I’m just not sure I can consume the recommended daily allowance of water. Maybe I won’t have moved out of the bathroom from the cleanse (ugh).

Tonight we measured each other and I crawled on the scale. Fun, right?! I can think of about 40 other things I would have rather done including scrubbing a public restroom! Jack consoled me by taking the family to the Pizza Ranch to enjoy one last taste of yummy carbohydrate delight.

I can do this, right? It’s only 24 days. It’s not like it’s Death by Cardio and I survived that!

Pray for me. Pray for Jack. Pray that we make it out on the other side skinny and still married.

If you’d like to do a 24 day challenge (perhaps you’re waiting to see if I drop dead first – understandable) you can check it out at www.Advocare.com. Jack’s an advisor now, so let me/him know if you’re interested.

How Old Do I Look, Honestly!

I’ve always been mistaken for being older than I really am.

When I was 16/17 and working at our local bakery, I was asked numerous times if I attended the local college. (flattering, right?)

When I was 21, my husband (1 year and 1 day my elder) and I went out for supper where we each ordered a drink. He was carded by our waiter and I was not. When I snickered, the waiter informed me that he was supposed to card anyone that looked under 30. My husband laughed out loud at the fact that I had not been carded (because apparently at the age of 21 I looked 42 – less flattering and not funny). That waiter received no tip.

When I was 34 a girl at my church mistook me for being older than my 40 year old sister. That sister was a grandmother and the girl that asked me knew that. “Do I look like I could be a grandma? Don’t answer that!” was all I could muster. (starting to become insulting)

A few weeks ago I accompanied Wyn to a doctor’s appointment. The assistant that came to the waiting room to call her name was making small talk on their way back to the room when she asked Wyn if I was her mother. I’m not even kidding! Wyn is 8 months younger than me – hardly enough of a difference to make me her mother! (do you see where this is going?)

My 6’7” basketball playing intern, Sally (whose real name may or may not be Michael) began calling me GT (short for Grandma Tina). I may or may not have threatened to kick him in his junk.

Then on Thursday, Wyn and I were enjoying a play date in one of our favorite hangouts – Target. We hit up the Christmas clearance section and made our way to the checkout. One of the great deals I found were these stuffed polar bears donning festive scarves and hats. At $2.50 each I could barely pass up the opportunity to stock up on secret Santa and $3.00 school gift-exchange gifts. While unloading my portion of the cart on to the conveyor belt, the 50’ish lady in front of me asked me if I was giving them to my grandchildren. SERIOUSLY?! MY GRANDCHILDREN?!

I turned to Wyn who was trying (not very successfully) not to laugh out loud. I said, “We’re friends, right? Do I need to do something different with my hair? Am I in desperate need of some wrinkle cream? You can be honest with me.” She continued to laugh and spent the better part of the day referring to me as “Mom”. She’d a hoot, that one.

I understand I’m not getting any younger, but should I stop wasting my money coloring my hair?